Fate of Fateless

The night was meant to be over.

The beasts had fled.

The child had been born.

The defenses were in place.

There should have been quiet—however uneasy.

But then—

Everything stopped.

Not in the estate.

Not in the region.

The world.

Across oceans, over mountains, under ancient catacombs where forgotten gods once whispered—all fell still.

Birds froze mid-flight, wings caught in air like marionettes.

Rivers stopped flowing, their surfaces hardened like glass.

Storms held their lightning in the sky, forever coiled, never striking.

Even flames forgot how to flicker.

It was as though time itself had stopped breathing.

And above it all—beyond the clouds, past the stars, in a realm no human could name—something opened.

A single eye.

It was not made of flesh or blood or thought.

It was the Eye of the Universe—an eternal observer that saw not with sight, but with truth.

It did not blink.

It did not move.

It simply focused.

Down… down… through realms and realities.

It found the continent.

Then the kingdom.

Then the estate.

Then the child.

And as it gazed upon him, the heavens trembled.

Within the chamber, the newborn boy remained quiet, wide-eyed, staring at nothing—and yet everything. His small hand twitched once.

Around him, light bent oddly. The shadows refused to touch him.

And then…

Something else entered.

Not another beast.

Not another god.

But an opposing force—neither light nor dark, neither cruel nor kind.

Something ancient.

Something older than the Eye.

It did not speak.

It did not roar.

It simply arrived.

And the Eye flinched.

For the first time in all of existence, the Eye of the Universe… withdrew.

Not out of confusion.

Out of respect.

Or perhaps… fear.

The sky released its breath.

Time restarted.

Rivers flowed.

Winds blew.

Flames flickered.

Birds fell from the air in confusion.

And inside the estate, a faint pulse of golden energy shimmered outward from the boy's body—like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him… yet shielded him all the same.

Lionheart, standing far from the manor still soaked in battle, suddenly fell to one knee—not from exhaustion, but from pressure.

His ancient instincts screamed.

Something had just looked at them.

And something even greater had intervened.

He stood, face pale, and turned back toward the estate.

"No," he muttered, already running. "No, no, no. Not now—not this soon!"

He burst through the manor's reinforced doors, guards parting for him as if pushed by an unseen force.

He reached the birthing chamber, panting, his gaze snapping to his son and then to the child—lying still in his mother's arms, eyes wide, silent.

"Did you feel it?" Hepton asked, his voice low and grim.

Lionheart didn't answer.

He stepped forward, lowering himself beside the bed. His hand hovered above the boy's head, then stopped. He could feel the lingering echo of the Eye—like cosmic frost burned into the soul of the room.

But more than that… he felt something else—the imprint of the being that had stopped it.

He looked to Hepton, face stone-serious.

"We are no longer protecting this child from the world," he said quietly.

"We're protecting the world… from him."